Of Fate
by brooklyndyme
Summary: Book One in a saga that spans generations and lifetimes. We begin with Draco and Hermione, a love unexpected, forbidden, and fated. A union that might one day save the world. Rated T for now, that might change to an M in later chapters.
1. BLUE::of Memory

_A/N: This is my first attempt at an epic fanfic in a very long time. So, please bare with me as it unfolds. Some quick notes: It will be broken into "Parts", and some chapters (like this one) might be on the longer side. I have not decided yet if dates will be applicable to all instances/chapters as some cover large time spans. Finally, I realize the children's speech might seem a bit overdeveloped, but this is mimicking that of children who are bright and/or grow up in formal settings (as I assume many pure-blood children do)._

 _Other than that, please enjoy. Reviews are encouraged and welcomed!_

* * *

 **PART ONE**

 _The Dragon_

* * *

July 2, 1986

The sleeping dragon opened his eyes to the bright, new sun. He sat up, hair disheveled and sheets tussled all over the bed, yawning deeply. He rubbed his eyes.

"Dobby!" he called groggily. Almost instantaneously, and with a loud pop, the wrinkled creature, quite near in size to Draco appeared.

"How may Dobby assist young master this morning?"

"Tell Mummy I'm awake," he ordered, still coming out of his sleep. The elf disappeared as quickly as he'd come.

While Draco awaited his return with instructions for the morning, he made his way to the casement window nearest his bed, from which the sunshine poured through. He hoisted himself onto the window seat beneath it, and stood on his toes to reach the crank that kept it shut. He had just wrenched it open, and felt the fresh air of summer on his little face when another telltale pop resounded behind him. He was dragged down to the ground before he could protest.

"Oh no! Young master must be careful! Young master is not supposed to open windows on his own."

"I'm fine, Dobby," Draco half-whined, with a hint of frustration in his voice. "Let me go!"

Dobby complied and released his hold on the boy, who had not been standing on his own and consequently lost his balance, falling flat on his bum with a loud thump.

"Master!" Dobby shrieked, horrified. Draco, however, did not hear the elf over the sound of his own laughter. "Dobby is sorry, young master!"

"Oh, stop fussing," Draco complained, swatting away Dobby's arms. "You're no fun at all."

Draco stood, dusted his nightgown, and rubbed his bum still smiling. As he did so, he faintly remembered a very serious conversation he recently had with his father. Lucius had taken him into his study, after seeing Draco running through the gardens with Timbel – another of the manor's elves – and proceeded to reprimand him.

Draco was now too old, according to his father, to consort with the house-elves in such a manner. "They are lesser creatures; they are beneath you. From now on they are your servants and nothing more." Draco had thought of mentioning that he did not have many playmates, but instead asked rather innocently if he could order them to play with him. That question earned him his father's disapproving (and disgusted) sneer. "Of course, if you wish to tarnish the Malfoy name and ruin all it has built for you." With that in mind, Draco removed his hand from his slightly sore tush and stood up a bit straighter.

"Get me ready for breakfast, elf." His tone was void of humor.

Dobby wasted no time ushering Draco into his bathroom for the usual morning preparations. He had a fresh bath, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair. Draco reached for his house clothes, before being stopped. "Mistress says young master is to dress in his robes for today."

Draco was immensely excited. It had been too long since his last play date (only three weeks, actually – but time moves so differently for the young). He took extra care checking over Dobby's handiwork in the mirror. With a satisfied 'hmph' he turned to his servant.

"To the dining room!"

Draco bounded down the many stairs of his home, racing through the rooms that separated the private quarters from the east wing. The portraits on the wall, many of them awoken by his pitter-pattering, grumbled disapprovingly. Draco paid them no mind, however, nor the house-elf running behind him and begging its young master to slow down. He could only think of the assuredly fun day he was going to have. He hoped his play date would be with Theo. He was by far Draco's favorite playmate. Though, he supposed Vinny or Greg would be fine too. As long it wasn't one of the girls he was happy. They liked to play dress up and dolls and family, and Draco could not be bothered with such rubbish games.

He burst into the dining room, and went right for his mother's knees; he nearly climbed over the arm of the chair she sat in, in his excitement. She let out a surprised 'umph'.

"Mummy, mummy!" he screamed. She turned to him attempting to still his joyful leaps. She smiled brightly at him, though.

"Woah! Good morning, darling. Aren't we energetic today!" He grinned back, eyes wide.

"Draco!" His grin dissipated, following his mother's, as his father's voice bellowed from across the room. "Come here." Draco moved cautiously, arriving head-bowed at his father's side. "Would you care to explain the egregious manner in which you entered the hall?" Draco kept his head low. "I am waiting?"

"Sorry, Father," he mumbled.

"Take out your hands." Draco slowly lifted his two hands, palms up, and closed his eyes. He felt two sharp raps, one to each. He winced and opened his eyes, tearing as Lucius lowered his wand. "We do not gallivant around this house like werewolves. Understood?" Draco nodded his little head.

"Yes, sir" he whispered, voice shaking.

"Good." Lucius flourished his wand at Draco's hands, alleviating the pain as swiftly as it had come. Draco smiled. "Dobby, share Draco's plate. Then, I suggest dropping something weighty on your toes. Perhaps that will teach you to be more sure-footed when looking after my son."

Draco took his accustomed seat in the center of the long rectangular table, between his parents. They seemed to be mostly finished with their breakfast, but the family ate in silence for some time. Lucius and Narcissa each read their copies of the Daily Prophet, and Draco focused on gobbling down his egg on toast.

"Mummy, am I playing with Theo today?" Draco ventured once he'd filled himself of breakfast and pumpkin juice. Narcissa lowered her paper.

"No, dearest, not today."

"Who then?" Narcissa furrowed her brow at Draco, understanding steadily coming over her. She glanced at Lucius, still behind his paper and hopefully unbothered.

"Oh no, my love. No play dates today. We are going to run some errands after lessons." She cooed.

Draco visibly pouted for the second time that morning. Errands were certainly less fun than playing. Lucius stood then, dropping his paper and snapping his finger. Timbel appeared right away with his outer robes and staff. He put on his garment and walked the length of the table, saying his usual morning goodbyes.

"Don't look so sullen, Draco. I'm sure your mother will get you some sweets and a new toy while you're out."

"A broom?" he beamed. Lucius chuckled.

"You'll have to speak with your mother about that." He kissed the top of Draco's head. "Adieu, my love," he whispered, pecking Narcissa gently on her lips. "Perhaps you might pick up some figs? I'm in the mood for a tart this evening." Narcissa's eyes sparkled delicately; she nodded. Following another kiss, his father exited for another day at the Ministry.

When his mother finished her paper, they proceeded to the second study (his father's presumably the "first") where he had his lessons for the day. They began with his reading of course, followed by penmanship, counting, and music – by far the worst of them all, seeing as today he was to practice his piccolo. Narcissa placed a rather uncomfortable ear muffling spell on him whenever he did so, resulting in the piano becoming his preferred instrument. Luckily, she did not require him to practice too long, as they did indeed have errands to do.

By noon they were weaving in and out of the shops on Diagon Alley. As promised he'd been treated to a rather large scoop of butterscotch ice cream, and a new toy dragon. He was rather pleased as his mother announced they'd finished and took his hand to apparate. Upon landing, he held his stomach and breathed deep. He'd only finished his ice cream 30 minutes or so prior, and felt rather queasy.

"All right, darling?" his mother asked. Draco took one more breath and stood straight; he had too much pride to be sick.

"Yes," he answered, sincerely. He looked around. "Mummy, where are we?"

When his mother had said they were finished, he assumed they'd be returning to the manor. But Draco knew those grounds in and out – that certainly wasn't where they were now. And they weren't at a (smaller) mansion or home of one of his mother's friends. Instead, they were on a pristine road lined with incredibly small homes and tress, at the end of which stood a high-steepled church. His mother turned to him and knelt down.

"Draco, Mummy has to see an old . . . friend. Then we will head home. All right, my little dragon?"

"Mmhm." He truly didn't mind much. She took his hand, and they began to walk until the church seemed far in the distance. Draco pretended to make his dragon fly with his free hand. A few minutes later, as they turned a corner, Narcissa's movements slowed. Draco looked up just as a dark-haired woman approached them, wearing a warm but cautious smile.

"Cissy, so good of you to come," she addressed his mother. Though, he'd never heard her called that name before.

"Andromeda," his mother replied curtly. They did not quite stop walking; rather Andromeda fell into step beside them. "Ugh, such a base neighborhood. Could you not have chosen a more . . . reputable location."

"With your reputation at stake, I thought better somewhere no one you know would recognize you. Certainly you won't find any of the _wizarding_ elite in this village. I find it rather charming." Narcissa scoffed.

"More so filled with all sorts of filth," Narcissa said under her breath, in begrudging agreement.

"Also," Andromeda added, "there's a lovely little garden with a play park that Nymphadora always adored. In case, you brought Draco along. Which of course, I'm glad you have." Draco looked up at the sound of his name, to see the strange woman – a dark version of his mum – smiling at him. He smiled back.

"Andromeda," came his mother's voice, low and threatening, "Do. Not."

Draco unconcerned himself with the rumblings of the adults as they reached their final destination, and he could see the playground's colors so bright in the distance.

"Mummy, mummy! Can I go play?"

At Narcissa's "Of course" Draco took off, full speed barely hearing her additional warning to be careful and stay in sight. He felt the distinct tingle of magic around him as he ran – she'd no doubt placed some sort of protective spell on him.

The jungle gym was certainly much smaller when he got to it up close, but he didn't too much mind. He first sought out the swings, by far his favorite apparatus. He was surprised though, to find that when he sat on it, nothing happened. Foiled, he moved on to the monkey bars, which were oddly enough barren of monkeys and similarly to the swings, static. After half-heartedly attempting the slides, he began to stalk away in a huff. The playground wasn't filled with children, per se, but they all seemed to be rather enjoying the broken thing. Of course, that meant that they were decidedly stupid – like Vinny – and he'd rather not be bothered with them either. Draco had made up his mind to let his mother know he was ready to leave, when his eye caught a glimpse of something rather magnificent.

She was seated in the sun on the also-still roundabout. Her shoeless feet wiggled in the sand beneath. In her lap, she held a book in one hand, while she rested her chin on the other. Draco, unconsciously, smoothed his robes and hair, and walked towards her.

He realized that was a terrible idea once he stood in front of her, though, he wasn't quite sure why. After a moment, she looked up at him, having felt his shadow.

"Hello!" she said, cheerily.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Draco heard his mother's voice reminding him it was impolite to stare. He couldn't help himself. Her dark blonde hair was pulled back into a French plait, but some bushy waves had escaped its hold, framing her face in frizz. She looked like a golden pygmy puff; she was so _pretty_.

"Are you all right?" she asked cocking her head to the side. Draco stood still. She sighed and closed her book. "Well, get on with it then. I'd like to finish reading."

Draco finally caught hold of himself.

"Get on with what?" he asked her, confused.

"The teasing. I'm sure you think you're clever." He did, and he was starting to suspect she was too, which he liked.

"I don't want to tease you," he replied.

"You don't?" It was her turn for confusion.

"No, I don't. Do you know where the monkeys are?"

"The monkeys?" she questioned.

"Yes. There are no monkeys anywhere. And the slides aren't moving; all the spells wore off. I think this park is broken. Can I read with you?" The pygmy openly stared at him for a moment before bursting into laughter. He strangely recalled the sound of his piccolo whenever he actually caught a tune.

"You're funny," she declared, still smiling. "Yes, you can."

Draco removed his own shoes and sat down beside her. She opted to read aloud, sounding almost grown up. The book contained no pictures, but she hardly ever stumbled with the words. Draco was impressed. He had recently moved on from picture books, but he wasn't nearly that good yet. He liked the way she read, and the way her stray hairs floated on the wind, and the way her heel occasionally swiped across his instep.

They sat like that for some time, until the Pygmy came to the end of the chapter.

"Riveting!" Draco declared, as if he'd been listening. It earned him another smile; he was beyond grateful.

"That's a cool dragon," she said, pointing to the toy he'd set beside his shoes. He bent down to pick it up, brushing the sand off it's soft but life-like scales.

"It's a Swedish Short-Snout," Draco proudly proclaimed. "Watch this!"

He took one of the dragon's wings in his hand, and began to flap it. The dragon roared; a gush of brilliant blue flame dispensed from its mouth. She screamed.

"That's dangerous!" she shouted, leaping off the merry-go-round and away from the toy. Draco laughed.

"It's not real, silly!" He flapped the wing again, and placed his free hand in the dragon's mouth. The fire engulfed Draco's hand without singing a hair. "Here, try it," he offered her.

She took it tentatively, her face riddled with caution. He watched her as she mimicked his movements, testing the dragon fire with her own hand. There was that smile again. Of course, neither of them knew that they were the only two on the playground at the moment who could hear the roar or see the flame.

"How does it work?" she asked him. He shrugged.

"Magic."

"Come on, I mean really." He shrugged harder.

"I don't know the exact spell." His tone was very matter-of-fact, and she was laughing with him again.

"Is your cape for magic too?" she teased.

"Cape? These robes are the height of wizarding fashion!" He borrowed the phrase from his mum.

"Dashing!" she confirmed, and they laughed again. "All right, then. Let's go to the swings; they're my favorite."

"I told you, everything's broken," he whined. She told him he was daft, grabbed his arm, and dragged him to the swing sets.

That afternoon, Draco learned to pump on a swing. The Pygmy finally succeeded at the monkey bars. Draco learned broken slides could still be fun when using them for racing. It was a much better day than he'd expected to have, and he'd discovered the best playmate of his young life.

They were chasing each other around the roundabout when his Pygmy suddenly stopped running.

"Hermione! Time to go!" He followed her gaze to the woman shouting in their direction.

"That's my mum, I've got to go. Will you be here tomorrow?" Draco was at a loss. He wasn't ready for her to leave. He looked back towards his mother, seated on a bench with that woman, and sadly shook his head.

"I don't think so," he whispered.

"Oh. Well, it was nice meeting you. Thanks for playing with me." She waved at him and began to turn around.

"Wait!" he called. Unaware of what had taken hold of him, he held out his toy to her. "Here, take it."

"I can't take it, it's yours."

"I don't want it anymore. It's okay, you like it a lot. You have it." She regarded him strangely, but reached out and took the curious toy from his hands.

"Thanks. Okay bye . . . wait! What's your name?" she giggled. He smirked, preemptively proud of his own cleverness.

"I'm the Dragon."

"That's not your name."

"Yes it is," he insisted.

"Well, fine. I'm Hermione Granger." In the distance, her mother called out for her again. "Thank you, Dragon." She rolled her eyes. She kissed his cheek. She took off sprinting in the other direction.

Draco was still redder than a Weasley as he made his way to his mother. She was standing now. He watched the other woman awkwardly embrace her in a goodbye. She smiled at Draco as she saw him approaching, and waved. She disappeared before his eyes with a pop.

"Come on darling," Narcissa held out her hand to him. "Home, now."

They were on the familiar Manor grounds in a matter of seconds. His mother knelt to his level for the second time that day. "Draco, this is very serious. I am going to ask you to do a very big boy thing."

"Okay."

"I don't want you to tell anyone at all, not even Father, about my meeting today. Do you understand?" He nodded his head.

"Mmhm." Narcissa looked at him strangely.

"Are you sure, dearest? You understand you can't speak of this? If someone asks, you must say we came straight home after shopping."

"I understand," he confirmed. Draco was too young to know what embarrassment was. Even less so prepared to describe the feeling of a crush. But he was certain he did not want to speak about it.

"Well, all right then. Where's your toy, Draco?" He shrugged; his mother sighed. "I suppose we'll just have to get you a new one tomorrow. And perhaps a broom, since you are my big boy now."

"Yes!" he happily cheered.

What an absolutely marvelous day.


	2. BROWN::of Knowledge

September 1, 1991

Draco was wide-awake as the sun inched its way to morning. Not that he'd slept much that night, or the night before, or most of the week to be honest. Today, though, that restlessness was to finally be rewarded.

He jumped from his bed and made his way around his room. Dobby had been in charge of packing his trunk of course – such labor was beneath him. But there wasn't much to do quite so early, so Draco figured he might as well check the wretched creature's work. He seemed to get more and more daft by the hour, Draco mused as he gathered two of his schoolbooks, and favorite casual robe, left out from the day before. Draco had been further reviewing the first chapters of _Standard Book of Spells_ and brushing up on some basic elementary magic theory. He already knew he was exceptionally bright, but it never hurt to get a leg up on things. His mother approved of his over preparation.

Speaking of – his door opened, and she entered already dressed for the day. She took note of his open trunk.

"Draco, you're not still packing? I was under the impression you had finished days ago," she mildly chastised.

"No, Mother. I was simply checking that everything was accounted for."

"Ah, how very responsible of you, my sweet. I do believe, however, you are missing something."

Draco cocked his head in questioning as Narcissa reached into the pocket of her robes. She pulled out the 10-inches of Hawthorn wood he'd received from Ollivander's.

"I would think a young wizard is going to need his wand."

Narcissa had taken hold of the wand almost as soon as they had paid for it. She was aware of her son's tenacious spirit, and had thought it best to act as its gatekeeper for the summer. Draco had mildly protested before his father's quick reprimand silenced him. But as Narcissa handed it to him now, he felt the magic in his body traverse the rivers of his blood to swell at the vein of his wrist. He felt the force, the power, and the potential literally pulsing towards his fingertips. His mother smiled down at him. Yes, he conceded, this is what the first moment of his first day of school should feel like.

"Thank you, Mother," he said. He placed the wand atop his robes.

"I'll leave you to get dressed. Breakfast will be served in forty-five minutes". She exited without waiting for a reply.

Draco went about his motions, attempting to keep himself composed though excitement raged in his skin. It was not proper to give oneself over to fits of fancy, but the restraint was hard today. He stood in the mirror for fifteen minutes getting every lock of hair in perfect, slicked place. He was rather proud of his appearance once complete. His reflection smirked back at him.

As he closed his trunk, he looked fondly around his (very large) bedroom that he would not be returning to. He knew lesser wizards felt nostalgic sadness – Theo had been anxious and fretting for weeks, and Draco overheard that Crabbe had actually _cried_ about leaving his mum days prior. Draco had no time for such childish antics. When he returned to this place, he would officially be a wizard in training. He'd know an amalgamation of spells and histories, have a hoard of admirers amongst his classmates and teachers, and be well on his way to greatness.

"Dobby!" he called. The house elf arrived, bowing and cooing, but Draco had no time for him either this morning. "Do not greet me as if we are equals, elf. Or I'll tell father. Now, take my trunk down to the foyer. And while I'm gone, I expect my bedroom thoroughly looked after. Off you go." With a pop Dobby was gone, and Draco shut the door of his childhood behind him.

He expected the morning to crawl. Yet, almost as soon as his plate was clear, Swiny, their newest house-elf, announced the time – 10:24am. It was time for them to be on their way. Lucius pulled Draco aside, shooing Narcissa away with a pointed look. She waited for them on the manor's steps.

"Are you prepared?" Lucius drawled, his long locks draped across his shoulders.

"Yes, Father," Draco answered.

"I expect nothing less than excellence, Draco. You will be the representative of our family, and the Malfoy name. That is not a responsibility for you to take lightly."

"Of course not, Father. I won't."

"Good," he paused. "Remember all your mother and I have taught you. Most importantly, remember that you carry thousands of years of tradition and magical exceptionality in you. Do that, and I am sure you will be successful. You already have the makings of a very fine wizard."

Draco looked up to see the corners of Lucius's mouth upturned slightly, the faintest hint of a smile. He met his eyes, and gave a curt nod.

"Thank you, Father. I will make you and Mother proud."

Lucius pat his shoulder and moved his hand to Draco's back, guiding him out the door.

"Are we ready? I do fear we're cutting it close," Narcissa addressed the pair as they exited.

"Yes, Mother," Draco promised.

* * *

Narcissa was not allowed to kiss him on the train's platform. He'd found Crabbe and Nott, bid his farewell to his parents, and boarded with as little fuss as possible. The ride was mostly uneventful. Draco spent most of the ride boasting about his plans for the school year. At some point, Goyle found them. He burst in exclaiming something about Harry Potter. Draco, with the boy-who-should-have-died's affront still fresh in his mind, berated Goyle for fawning like a love-sick schoolgirl. A little later, a pudgy, mumbling and generally unimpressive boy with black hair had knocked looking for a _toad_. Before anyone could answer, Draco let him know a toad was a horrible choice of pet and even if they found it, it would be chucked out the train's window.

"Honestly, have some respect for yourself. Forget the slimy beast and get an owl, or a cat. Merlin, are you _crying_?" He'd run away at the start of the compartment's laughter. Draco peeked out at him running down the aisle. He'd hoped the rest of the student body wasn't so meek.

By the time he had traversed the boats and stood at the entrance of the Great Hall, Professor McGonagall explaining the prospect of sorting, he felt all of his confidence was well placed. He was certainly the most put together of the first years – Daphne might have been a fair second. One of the Asian twins had a finger in her nose, Potter's ratty hair went in a thousand directions, and he was quite certain there was actual _dirt_ on the Weasley boy's face. Draco felt assured any competition would be, at best, moderate.

When the sorting began, he wondered if there was any point in sitting under the hat. He wanted to ask Professor McGonagall if he could just take his place at the Slytherin table, but thought it better to let the hat decide, and clearly announce to the school, Draco's place in the greatest Hogwarts house.

Draco's thoughts swam in such a manner until the reading of a peculiar name caught his attention. It sounded so familiar, like the déjà vu of dream, but Draco could not discern why for the life of him. Then, he saw her.

She was of course taller now. Her hair was a wild heap of frizz around her small frame. It had darkened to the color of acorns. She wasn't golden anymore, but he'd know the pygmy that gave him his first kiss anywhere.

The hat lingered on her head, seemingly taking its time. Obviously she belonged in Slytherin. She was clever, and determined, and he had actually gotten along with her. If Crabbe and Goyle could secure spots, surely Hermione would too. The suspense was a waste of—

"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat bellowed. She hopped off the stool, grinning and skipping over to the hollering table. He supposed surprise would be the most accurate description of his response. That quickly dissipated, though. At least, that's what he told himself as he sat on the stool, smirking at the quickness of his placement. That's what he told himself while he stared across the hall at her. That's what he told himself as he settled in his dorm, her smile lulling him to sleep. 

September 3, 1991

There was not much about Hogwarts that he was unprepared for. In fact, Draco he felt himself adjusting exceptionally well. At breakfast the first morning, he received a parcel of sweets from his mother's owl. Crabbe and Goyle fell into step behind him without too much prompting, carrying his books and flanking his posture (who said you couldn't have house-elves at Hogwarts!). His housemates rightfully recognized the status of his name. His classes seemed manageable enough. Though, the immediacy of the onslaught of assigned work was a bit unexpected. No matter though, Draco was quite confident that some time spent in the library would keep his academics perfectly on track.

There was not much that Draco was unprepared for, until he stepped into the library in the late afternoon, seeking a charms book for his first essay. There she was. In the late afternoon, all hair hiding a head he supposed was bent over a tome. Her hand shook violently as her pen scribbled. The red of her Gryffindor robes seemed too bright. Like all those years ago, his feet moved without his expressed consent. He was looking down at her, and she didn't know he stood there; there was no shift in shadow to alert her. He cleared his throat instead. She did not respond.

"Hermione," he called. Her head shot up towards him. For a moment, she looked irritated – which he could respect – but then her face shifted more to surprise.

"Oh! Hello," she answered.

"Draco Malfoy," he continued. "Though I'm sure you were already aware. Is it all right if I sit here?" He asked, but he'd already slid his rucksack from his shoulder.

"Of course. It's a pleasure to meet you, Draco." He nodded, unknowingly heartbroken. He had expected her to remember him.

They studied in silence for a spell. On occasion Draco would catch himself staring, and turn back to his schoolwork in pointed embarrassment. This happened four times. The fifth, she felt his gaze before he did, looked up at him and cocked her head.

"Is something wrong?"

"No! Um . . . no. I was just thinking about something," he stumbled.

"Oh, it's no problem. How's your assignment coming along?" Draco glanced down at his books.

"Well, I think. It's not very difficult. I just don't want to do it later."

"That's a very wise philosophy. You and I might be the only two first-years who are thinking ahead."

"That's because most of them are too busy running around on staircases like they've never seen magic before," he sneered.

"It is all rather exciting. I suppose I can understand the impulse. I'd rather actually _learn_ about it though."

"Well put, Granger. It's good to know there's at least one other brain operating at full capacity around here." She looked at him quizzically for a moment, but eventually her eyes caught their sparkle.

"Thanks. Same to you."

Draco decided then, that he was rather glad she was there. And, obviously, the Sorting Hat had simply made a mistake. Hermione Granger was more than worthy.

* * *

Draco moved smoothly through the next few days. But, perhaps the most important thing was that he'd found a new study partner; he learned a lot.

On Wednesday, he learned she was named after a princess. Also, that she thought princesses were rubbish.

On Thursday, he learned her favorite animals were chipmunks – her and her father chased them around forests when they camped.

On Saturday, he realized she liked to hum while she read. Draco was almost certain she was not aware. But, entrenched in literature for thirty minutes or more, and her vocal cords got restless. Sometimes she even sang beneath her breath.

On Monday, he realized she was a muggle – it made his head spin. "That can't be right," he'd thought aloud. When she asked what he meant, he paled. "Nothing at all. Doesn't matter," he'd answered. He really hoped it didn't.

There were a host of other little things: that astronomy was her favorite subject so far, that she'd almost worn Ravenclaw blue, that she couldn't whistle or snap her fingers (he taught her to do the latter).

He learned the brown suited her just fine.


	3. BROWN::of Seed

September 12, 1991

Draco was already beyond cross when he entered the library in the late afternoon. How exactly, had Potter managed to not only escape all consequence, but get an _exception_ to join Gryffindor's team. It wasn't fair, nor right, and for god's sake wasn't he raised by muggles? He'd never even properly ridden a broom! Clearly the professors had allowed his celebrity to cloud their judgment. Legend, he might add, that was entirely underserved. All the boy had done was sit in a crib. Draco knew to certainty that The Dark Lord's fall was only temporary. Lucius had promised his return on several occasions (though, Draco was never to speak that aloud). Draco huffed through the library's aisles. He couldn't wait for his lord to make Potter The Boy Who Died.

It was with that thought running through his mind that he arrived at his usual study table, only to find his accustomed partner three tables away. He furrowed his brow, and stalked over to her – albeit gentler than he'd moved previously.

"Why have you moved? I like that table," he demanded. She kept scribbling and did not respond. "Hello, Granger. Have you gone mute?"

"I am perfectly comfortable wear I am," she chimed, finally. He did not miss the clip of her tone.

"Is something wrong?"

She raised her head, cocked it to the left, and pinched her lips.

"You were absolutely horrid to Neville earlier." He was confused.

"You're upset because of that pathetic lump? Honestly—"

"I'm upset because of how you treated him. He's already having a rough enough time," she interrupted.

"It's not my fault he's a quivering mass of pumpkin pulp," Draco sneered. This, he did _not_ need today.

"Even if that were the case – which it's not – it doesn't give you the right to be cruel. And I for one would rather not spend time with someone who thinks it does, studying or otherwise."

Rage is the subdued word for what Draco felt.

"Fine, then. You can have Longbottom. I'm sure even he's not daft enough to be friends with a bossy, know-it-all, muggle like you!" He watched the way her eyes changed. The defiant spark dissolved into wide pain, and he felt his gut drop six feet.

"Oh." He'd just been about to speak. He didn't mean it, not like that. Wasn't she smarter than this? "That's the end of this conversation. It is a library after all."

It occurred to him that their entire argument had been in whisper. She turned her head back to her assignment. Draco heard the faintest sniffle, like a ghost's breath. His gut swung up to his throat.

"Granger, come on," he started. His father's voice was in his head. _Malfoys do not grovel_. "Fine!" he sneered.

Draco spun on his heel, moving with purpose from the sodding library and the girl he'd possibly made cry. This was his fault, really. He should have cut all interaction with her the moment he learned of her heritage. Of course she'd side with Longbottom; his blood might be pure but his character was as lowly as the mud in her veins. His mother had been right about them. His father had too. And he would do well to remember that from then on.

* * *

Draco was diligent about keeping appropriate company after that. He did not stray far from the green of his house. Not even when he heard rumors of Granger missing with the troll loose. Of course, after that she clearly decided to join the merry band of St. Potter, becoming inseparable from him and the Weasel. They're fates were sealed. She was to be his academic rival and social nuisance. That was the only reason he still watched her in potions, at meals, during flying (of which she was clearly terrified – the mark of a lesser witch). It had nothing to do with her riotous crown of fur. When he caught her eyes, always a-swirl with thought, he sneered. Nothing about them was beautiful. Nothing about her was either. He saw only whirlpools of brown muck, a display of her essence.

June 5, 1992

Pansy screeched, Nott woohooed, and Goyle clapped thunder as Draco entered the common room that morning. "Happy Birthday to you…" they sang, accompanied by Zabini and Bulstrode. Crabbe, thank Merlin, kept time with makeshift drum (he had a voice like a troll). They also all held sparklers, making a rather obscene spectacle of themselves. This wasn't the Hufflepuff common room after all.

Draco could not pretend though that he did not enjoy the well-deserved attention. His birth was certainly a blessing on the world and should be thoroughly celebrated as such. Exams had gone exceptionally well; he had the day completely free for frivolity. Though, such excess was below him. Besides, he was sure his mother would be hosting a belated formal evening as soon as he returned.

"You lot sound awful enough," Draco commented as he approached.

"Good to know your manners aged with you, Malfoy," Blaise quipped through smirk.

"Respect that which is worthy; scorn that which isn't. Unofficial words of house Malfoy," Nott adds.

"Careful, Nott. Weren't your parents cousins?" Draco asked with narrow eyes.

"Oh boys, play nice. We have presents, Draco!" Pansy shrieked.

Zabini and Nott's were by far the best – a dragon hide belt and set of dozen phoenix quills with ink. The rest were an amalgamation of sweets (chocolate frogs, acid pops, things of the like). He was a bit peeved no one managed to get coconut ice – his favorites, but he let that slide. There was also a rather gushy card from Pansy, that she'd signed _love_. Draco read it, glanced her way, and thought about how great it would be to toss it into the fire later.

"Let's get downstairs. I'm sure Mother and Father have sent me some wonderful things."

This was a joke. It had to be. A terrible, brilliant, getting old fast as a Nimbus joke. It was his bloody birthday! How, in all that was holy and pure in the world, on this one day that was undoubtedly all Draco's, was the whole godforsaken school whispering about Potter. He could set the whole school aflame he was so angry. The only possible consolation he could find, was that the scarred menace stayed in his apparent coma and died within a fortnight.

Draco tried to keep it out of his head. He roamed the grounds with Zabini and Goyle (and unfortunately Pansy who'd decide to attach herself to him for the day). They snuck a swim in the Black Lake, played chess and exploding snap in the grass. He gorged himself on sweets and chocolate. Draco even played a tune from his flute, showing his friends what real music sounded like. The sun was setting when he finished, and Pansy opened her mouth that Draco had learned was often too big.

"I heard that's what Potter used to get by the dog," she started. "A flute."

"A flute?" Goyle asked. "How can a flute stop a three-headed dog?"

"Think a bit harder, mate," Zabini laughed. When Goyle's face scrunched in concentration, Zabini patted his shoulder. "I'm sure you'll get there eventually."

"Obviously the mudblood's the one who came up with that," Pansy continued. "Potter and the blood traitor couldn't rub two sticks together without a manual. They're almost as stupid as Vince."

"Hey!"

"What?" Draco asked. "Granger was with them? She went after it too? That can't be true. She's not stupid enough to get caught up in that," he scoffed.

"Well, she's unconscious in the hospital wing, too. All three of them are! They haven't been at any meals," Pansy defended.

"She does trail after them like starved mutt," Zabini added. "It's far from surprising."

Draco wasn't listening anymore. He did not know why he was suddenly so anxious, but he definitely did not want to speak of this any further. He stood in a flash and packed his things away.

"No more talk of Potter," he spat. "It's still my birthday and I plan to feast as such. Let's go."

They all followed in step with no hesitation. Only Zabini regarded him strangely for a moment. He thought better of saying whatever was on his mind when he caught Draco's warning eyes.

* * *

All things considered, this had to be the worst idea Draco had ever had. What had compelled him to be out of his comfortable bed, after curfew, sneaking through corridors like a common thief? He was so much better than this.

That did not stop his feet. They carried him through the dungeons, past the Great Hall. So much more sure than he, they navigated the maze of dark Hogwarts determined to reach the hospital wing.

He lit his wand when he reached the landing. He steeled his nerves too. This was so, _Gryffindor_.

Draco opened the door with a flick, grateful that it did not creak, and entered slowly. He saw Harry first, then Ronald. A few beds further, he caught the slightest sight of bushel, and moved with determination. When he was less than a few feet away, he caught her voice, delicate in the still. _Who's there?_

Draco stopped in his tracks. He was very tempted to run the other way.

"Hello? I can see your light."

"You're meant to be asleep," he sighed. His legs had made up their mind before him, again. He was almost at her bedside, so he might as well speak.

"What're you doing here?" Draco could feel the venom on her lips.

"Same as you. Acting foolishly." He was at her side now, looking down at her. The light of his wand glowed her face blue. He could see the thin slices on her cheek.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Are they asleep?" He had to verify. She stared at him for a beat with hard eyes.

"Yes," she conceded. He moved closer.

"I brought you…" He reached his hand into his robes for the package, and felt immediately foolish. But it seemed the easiest thing to do, and say at the moment. "Um…I brought you cake. My mother sent it. For my birthday." She stared, blank.

"You brought me cake?"

"It's raspberry. With lemon icing." He held it out to her, and she took too long to take it.

"Thanks." She was timid. Draco was suddenly very sure of himself.

"You are not an idiot, Hermione Granger. Don't let Potter turn you into one. You shouldn't have gone gallivanting after them. It was dangerous and stupid. You could have bloody died. And how would your muggle parents even explain it, hmm? You encountered dark wizards chasing a mythological stone at your boarding school?" Draco never rambled. This was all so out of his comfort zone and he had to leave, fast. "Don't do it again, or I'll kill you myself!" He turned around before she could respond.

Over the sound of his feet pounding, he thought he heard her voice ( _Draco_ ). But he kept running. Straight out the doors, down the stairs, across corridors endless until he found himself near his beloved dungeon. He refused to let himself think about anything that had just transpired. In a week, his first year would be done. He'd be home. A summer of fresh air and proper company would rid him of _her_ – he prayed.

* * *

 _Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed! This isn't the best written chapter, I apologize for that. I also promise the story picks up/gets more interesting. Trying to lay down background of fundamental but unknown moments of their interactions._

 _As always, reviews welcomed and appreciated. =)_


	4. GREEN::of Monster

August 15, 1992

The difference between flight and music was simple: one left him breathless; the other took his breath away. Draco stood on the Manor's quidditch pitch fighting the air with his chest. Lucius cared little for his son's stamina. At the start of summer holiday, once the Board received the complete marks and rankings of the current student body, Lucius thrust a new broom into Draco's hands. "Practice. You'll be playing quidditch next year." It was an order. Draco did not bother to mention that a spot on the team would interfere with orchestra rehearsals. Lucius's word was law; he would not be challenged. It was probably for his own good anyhow, Draco reasoned. Even if he did not understand how yet.

Draco dismounted with soft heels. He wondered whether the applause of admiration could resound in time – if ragged breaths could transfigure into song.

"I want to see another round," Lucius quipped from his seat in the shade.

"Father, I was hoping to rest some before going out again," Draco whined.

"He has been at it for hours, Lucius," Narcissa added, though with a tone of minimal interest. "And it's approaching 2 o'clock, dear. You have an appointment if I'm not mistaken." Lucius glanced at his watch.

"I suppose that is enough for today. We shall resume tomorrow."

A breathy 'thank you' and Draco was off, running full speed towards the house before Lucius changed his mind.

It wasn't that he didn't like flying. The daily practice made his already inherent skill rather formidable. It was just . . . well . . . he didn't want to fly _all_ the time. And he certainly didn't want to spend his whole holiday above ground. Summer was for days lost in woodlands and swan dives into lakes. He missed the French countryside, and Italian beaches, and fairy clouds from his favorite sweet shop in Romania.

Summer was not meant to be lonely.

Sure, letters were fine—just fine. Parchment couldn't laugh, or dance (though, Izzy had a wonderful talent for making her words sing). Ink couldn't pick fresh berries and climb mountainous hills. Sealing wax had no impulse to chase down stars while parents slept. Those things could only recount the adventures his favorite seasonal mates were having—without him.

Draco threw himself onto his bed. He head nestled in his fluffed pillows. he swallowed hard.

This. Was. Not. Fair.

He'd had a great first year. Snape _told_ him that. Draco couldn't help being the same year as Potter. He couldn't stop Dumbledore playing favorites. He certainly couldn't make Granger stupid . . .

But. Draco sat first chair flute. Draco received the second best marks of his whole year. Draco earned the most house points for Slytherin. He had six more years to ascend to the top spot in everything. He planned to excel in everything.

Draco wanted desperately to let his father know perfection was coming. He had every intention of furthering the glory of the Malfoy name. Draco knew exactly what he owed his blood.

Patience, however, escaped Lucius. Draco could be perfect or join his god-brother Octavian at Durmstrang.

Draco wasn't quite ready to give up on Hogwarts. Even if it was going to the dogs.

Thus, Draco swallowed the lumps. He massaged the aches. He buried any complaints. Later, he would dub this the "Summer of the Skies," remembered with neither regret nor shame.

* * *

With a sluggish and ungraceful tumble, Draco rolled off his bed and headed to the kitchen on wobbly knees. He reached the first landing before remembering he could have called a house elf.

Draco had gotten used to doing certain things for himself. It was oddly satisfying at times, after a life of lifting few fingers. And something about walking along long corridors and flights of stairs reminded him of school. Comforted him. The Manor was his home. He knew that. He loved it. And Hogwarts was going to the dogs. Yet, the castle had charm. It was enchanted and warm, and Draco's chest tightened whenever he thought of it.

He reached the first landing, and remembered about house elves because Dobby stood down the hall pressing his ear against the door of Lucius's study.

"You shouldn't have your back to the stairs, elf," Draco commented, strolling up behind him.

Dobby whirled. Shrieked. Whimpered. A sharp snap vanished the poor thing—probably to beat his head against a stone.

Dobby was a meddlesome elf, always had been. An act of rebellion the other elves never dared. Draco didn't mind; he liked the elf's moxie. And all secrets he spilled. Where Narcissa hid Draco's Christmas gifts, for example.

Dobby had been careless just then. A rare occurrence, indeed. That meant he was listening hard. The conversation on the other side of the door had to be juicy.

Draco took Dobby's abandoned spot.

The door was slightly ajar.

This was probably an awful idea.

Wisps of sound escaped through the needle-thin crack. Lucius's silk baritone, and the scraggly mumble of his companion. The man sounded unimpressive. Common. _Weak_.

That couldn't be right.

Lucius Malfoy was a great man, of great status and great importance. He did not hold court for unimpressive men. Especially not in his home. Especially not in his study. Great men had only great associates—it was one of the first lessons Draco remembered learning.

"Have you tested it?" his father questioned.

"Ay. I's the real deal all righ'. Wrote back n everything, just like the rumors said. Sounded just like ol' Lord, too. Tol' me to get it straight to Hogwarts."

"What were the exact words? Did it say anything else?"

"Ah jeez! No, not really. Said to get it to Hogwarts, the Lord's work needs finishing. Said the school was step one. Oh! N somethin' bout a 'royal serpent rise'. Whatever the bleeding hell that means."

Silence fell for a long moment. Draco adjusted his position in case they made for the door and he had to run.

"Wonderful." Glee lilted Lucius's tone. "And you've delivered it to Borgin? It is in his possession?"

"Yessir! Brought it over this mornin', then came straight here. He knows to be expecting ya."

"Thank you, Florence. You've been most helpful in this matter. I do wish this ended differently for you."

"Sorry, sir?"

Have you ever been assaulted by a sudden an overwhelming feeling of dread? Have you ever felt something horrible coming before it happens, coupled by impotence to stop it? Perhaps, gasping as a young child, speeding and two high, rides a broom headed towards a whomping willow. Or, realizing the potions master is lost in daydream, carelessly tossing ingredients into a complicated, temperamental brew. Or, seeing a muggle—drunk maybe, merrily leaving the pub—stumble on the pavement and into Bellatrix Lestrange? Draco felt it. Maybe it was Lucius's tone. Or his words. Or Draco's intuition. Maybe it was a ripple in time; the force of impact of the thing about to happen was so strong, it made Draco feel the Universe differently. Draco needed, wanted, tried so damn hard to run. Fate held him still.

"Oh dear, you didn't think you were going to simply walk away did you? This is sensitive business, Florence. People tend to . . .misunderstand. Loose ends are undesirable."

"No, sir! I ain't no loose end."

Panic clumped in Draco's larynx.

"I won't say nothin'! I handle all sorts of artifacts for all sorts of wizards, n I ain't never said nothin'!" Florence felt it too. "I's why you hired me, sir."

"Of course. Precautions, nevertheless, are necessary." Was that glee again, slipping across his father's tongue? "Your wand, Florence."

"Please, Mr. Malfoy! I ain't got no gossipin' bones. I can get ya anythin' ya need, free of charge even! Like diaries? I just procured a real doozy! Written by that old lio—"

"Quiet! There is no need to be frightened, Florence. I will simply obliviate your memories of this whole ordeal. Your wand is a practicality to avoid staining my own with the spell."

Florence released a heavy breath with a light chuckle. Draco's anxiety remained; it was in his marrow now.

"Thank you, Florence."

"Scared me witless, Mr. Malfoy. I work with some dark folk, never know what they're capabable of—"

"Avada Kedavra!"

It's funny: Draco's body went as stiff as Florence's.

A single moment stretched to the end of time. Still. Quiet. Blank.

A single word took shape in Draco's mind.

 _Unforgiveable_.

For a single moment, a single whisper clouded Draco's thoughts. He stood pallid, with popped eyes glazed numb. Irises like asphalt. Until the body dropped.

From the other side of the door, came a muffled thud. Draco pivoted on his heel. His pulse tsunamied. His chest seized. His wobbly knees buckled as they reached new speeds. Mad dash back to the stairs. Wide lunges up two, three at a time.

Don't stop.

Don't stop.

Get away.

Run.

When he reached his room, he threw himself into his bed. He swallowed a lump. His ears rang, but not with the sound of his ragged, pumping heart. He heard a muffled thud, again and again—the sound of a body falling. The sound of a man dying. The sound of his father killing.

His father, Lucius Malfoy – a great man. . .

September 1, 1992

 _The hallmark of growing up, is doing away with the childish notion of black and white. The world is grey, and many other colors. To be grown is to exist in a kaleidoscope of ever-shifting hues._

That was a quote from some book Draco didn't enjoy, authored by some woman he couldn't be bothered to remember; Narcissa had forced it on him.

Yet, but that passage had stuck with Draco. Not due to any sentimental nonsense, of course. Nor any misplaced notions of profound or inspiration. Draco had liked the imagery. It made him see bright paint splattered in reckless abandon. Recently, however, the words' content had developed significane. They validated what Draco had decided was his first truly grown up decision.

After three days of shrinking from Lucius, then encountering the Weasley circus in Diagon Alley, Draco reattached his head good and straight.

Lucius Malfoy, his father, was a great man. If he killed someone, they had to deserve it. Florence had been the lesser. Whatever cause his father was protecting was well worth an Unforgiveable and a sacrifice. It had to be. The world did not need Florence; it would not miss him.

And further, there was a power in that latent secret. His father could control life and death—like the gods had. _My father could kill you_ , he would never utter. But it was true, and that meant something.

All this considered, Draco shook Lucius's hand on Platform 9 ¾ with earnest. He promised Lucius an exceptional year. With the confidence of moral and personal superiority so particular to young heirs, Draco peacocked his way onto the train.

He strutted the carriages, abuzz with over-eager children, in search of an empty compartment and relative solitude. His desire to reconnect with his green and silver band was shockingly strong. But that would have to wait. First, Draco needed to think about some things, and get his plans for the year in order.

The final compartment at the back of the train was oddly pristine, with stain-free cushions and vanilla in the air. He supposed most students didn't venture this far back. Perfect.

He pulled down the blinds.

From the breast pocket of his robes, Draco pulled out a torn page. It was from _The Rarest and Most Ancient of Beasts_ , a tome nestled in Flourish and Blotts' rare book selection. The title had caught Draco's interest, but he'd stumbled onto this particularly interesting page: host to a crowned snake, body curled and head raised ready to strike. "Royal serpent," Florence had said. What did his father want with a basilisk?

Draco decided it probably better his father did not learn what he witnessed. Even though Draco forgave him, supported and trusted him unwaveringly, Lucius would not take kind to Draco's spying. Slithering around like a common thief was below them. His detest for the Hand of Glory made that quite clear.

Still, Draco was curious. They had gone to Borgin's, so Lucius had whatever Florence had found. But, if he needed to get it to Hogwarts, why had he not brought anything up with Draco? By Merlin, he bloody lived there!

Draco had two possible explanations. The first, his father did not trust him. The second, this was all much more complicated than that conversation let on.

Either way, if he could just figure out the pieces . . . perhaps he could approach his father. Perhaps, Lucius would be so impressed that he'd bring Draco into the fold, treat him as a confidant and friend—less like a little boy.

Draco was not daft, he knew it would take other things, too. Draco would need to demonstrate his drive towards complete excellence. Dominate the quidditch pitch and classroom, do some sort of deed to earn special awards from the school. It was doable. Draco just had to focus. No childish antics. No slacking off. No distractions.

Of course, because his luck was as fickle as a Goblin's promise, she threw open the compartment door at that exact moment.

* * *

Draco would later think of exactly seventeen insults to throw her way. As she stood in the doorway, however, he came up with exactly zero. His lips refused to move, anyway.

Of course the sun shined from the other side of the train, onto her back, bathing her body in halo. Of course her hair was everywhere and glowing all sorts of shades of yellow-brown he'd never imagined. Of course she mouthed a surprised 'O', her buckteeth dangling below her upper lip. Of course she blushed.

Then she frowned.

"What are you up to back here, Malfoy?"

Good. This, he could handle.

"Minding my own business, Granger. Familiar with the concept?"

Her lips pursed in uncanny McGonagall imitation, before her hands found her hips.

"I'm looking for Harry and Ron. You haven't seen them, have you?" Her voice was dark with accusation.

"Can't say I have. Did Potter and his girlfriend finally decide three's a crowd? Pity." Her nose wrinkled in kitten-esque fury, and Draco smirked at his triumph.

"And you? Have your bodyguards finally been expelled for general ineptitude?"

If she were someone else, he would have laughed. He indeed held back a small snort. Leave it to Granger to make a dictionary necessary equipment in a fight.

For the record, the sunlight still streamed around her.

"If Hogwarts is in that business, then your Weasel definitely isn't on the train. Well, unless he's learning to conduct it." She might have her dictionary, but he made venom with words.

"You're disgusting!" she announced. "And whether he drove trains or ran the Ministry, Ron would still be thousands times the person you are!" A huff, raised chin, sharp pivot, and she stalked off.

Three things happened at once.

Infuriated by a comparison to Weasley, Draco jumped from his seat. The train jerked, causing Draco's flute case to tumble to the ground and split open. From the corridor came a muffled thud—a body falling.

"Granger!" Draco yelled into the aisle. He stalked towards the crumbled heap of frizz on the ground. "Are you all right?" he asked when he reached her. His mouth had acted without permission, its tone soft.

Hermione's head snapped up, confusion and curiosity spilling across her features.

"Uh . . . I'm fine," she stuttered out, eventually.

Reluctantly, and with extreme caution, she took Draco's outstretched hand and eased onto her feet. Her right foot came down. She winced before it grazed the floor.

"You're hurt."

"I'm fine." She said it through gritted teeth. She put her foot down, bit her lip to keep from wincing, and fell forward the moment weight was applied.

Draco caught her.

"You can't walk."

"I have to find Harry and Ron."

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard you say. Put your arm over my shoulder, Granger. Don't be such a Gryffindor for once."

She was looking at him the way she looked at transfiguration notes—a thing she was trying to analyze. But, she did as he said, and let him bring her to his compartment. She let him sit her down and elevate her leg onto the seat.

"Your ankle, right?" he asked. She nodded.

Draco had a lot of second hand experience with rolled ankles. Octavian had little grace, Bastine liked climbing trees, and Izzy enjoyed a good wrestling match. He'd watch his mother do the spell dozens of times.

Eyes closed, Draco pulled out his wand. He felt Hermione flinch, but she didn't scream or try to run. He pictured his mother's wrist, the fluid sure motion. He mimicked it four times. On the fifth, he added the words and a bit of will power.

Hermione gasped. Draco's eyes shot open in panic. Had he broken her?

They both stared at her bare ankle. It was glowing a soft pastel blue—like he remembered. When it faded he helped her stand. She didn't wince once.

"Wow. . . Thanks," she whispered, eyes still on her feet.

"Your welcome." In an instant, the daze left her eyes. They locked on him, fierce and alert. They narrowed.

"Why did you do that?" The accusation was back.

"Why did I help you?" She could not be serious. "You ungrateful cow—"

"Why do you care if I'm hurt?"

Well. Was not expecting that.

"I have no intention of serving detentions because something thinks I cursed you," Draco sneered after a moment.

"And last term? When I was in the hospital wing. Why'd you come then? You came with cake. On your birthday. I checked."

Was it possible to die of shame? His face must have been scarlet, it was on fire.

"So what?" Really, that was the best he had. . .

"So. It's illogical. You're horrid every day and then suddenly turn nice when I'm hurt? Or, when we're alone. Not exactly the one way treats someone they hate."

"Shove off, Granger."

"Answer me, Malfoy." They were close enough for touching noses, if he weren't a head taller than her. Strands of her mane ghosted his forearm.

Draco threw his hands into the air. Then he threw his body backwards, onto the cushions. As he crossed his arms, it occurred to him that he could have just left.

He wasn't ready to. Not just yet.

Hermione plopped down across from him, and crossed her arms as well.

"This incessant need to know everything will be your downfall, you know," he sneered.

"Maybe," she shrugged. Hermione, it seemed, had no intention of rising to his bait.

Draco clenched his eyes and sighed.

"I don't hate you, Granger. You stopped revising with me, remember?" Draco could have, should have, stopped right there. But the words were sprinting far beyond him; she made them do that. She was dangerous.

"You're . . . unacceptable. With your heritage, Granger, I don't expect you to grasp the weight of my family's name. I come from a long line of great wizards—no less on my mother's side: the house of Black, most ancient and noble. I have a responsibility, a destiny, to add to that greatness. Public association with your filthy blood would tarnish those names. You're clever, pleasant company that I happily enjoy in private. But, other than that you aren't worthy."

Draco had kept his eyes fixed outside the window as he spoke. He was pleased with himself, actually. The last time they'd spoken, his tongue twisted and he shoved dessert at her. This time, he'd managed perfect coherence. Draco presented reason and practicality; Hermione was a woman of analytics. Now they could build a friendship without any confusion. He smiled. He turned his head.

Hermione's eyes were red.

"Oh . . ." she whispered. A tear pooled on her upper lip.

Huh?

"What's wrong?"

"I'm the best in our class, Malfoy. I'm smarter than you. I'm better at magic. I'm kinder than you'll ever be . . ."

"I know all that . . ." Draco was confused. His words were running away again. "You're exceptional, beautiful—"

"And unworthy?"

"Your name, your blood. Not you. I don't hate you at all. I like you. I don't want to see you hurt, ever!"

"Well, you're doing quite a good job of it yourself!" She was on her feet now. Her face was red too; her whole body shook. "You're foul, Malfoy! You're a coward! You just stay away from me!"

Hermione wrenched the compartment door open and stomped into the hall. Draco's ashen face studied the doorway. He simultaneously felt numb and nauseous.

To his surprise, she appeared in the doorway again. If it were possible, with redder eyes.

"You know, you said 'weight', Malfoy. Like a burden. You should probably think about why," she said, her tone soft on a breaking voice.

Then she was gone for good, leaving Draco alone in the compartment. His thoughts swelled with red eyes . . . with blood . . . with greatness. With the echo of falling bodies and the making of legacy.


End file.
